


Vulnerable

by vexmybones



Category: Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Author Is Sleep Deprived, Complete, Dysfunctional Relationships, F/M, Idiots in Love, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Natasha Romanov Feels, Natasha Romanov Is Not A Robot, Nick Fury is Not Amused, Nightmares, Not Avengers: Infinity War Part 1 (Movie) Compliant, Not Beta Read, One Shot, Panic Attacks, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Rare Pair, Songfic, Tony Stark Feels, Tony Stark Has A Heart, Wanda Maximoff is a beautiful person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-25
Updated: 2018-03-25
Packaged: 2019-04-08 04:06:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,072
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14096835
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vexmybones/pseuds/vexmybones
Summary: Two broken people and how they fit together.





	Vulnerable

**Author's Note:**

> I blame this on one too many IronWidow videos on Youtube.   
> Also, pretend Infinity War doesn't exist. This is set sometime after Civil War. Songs are listed at the end. Enjoy!

 

 

' _You know what?_

_I’m that crazy motherfucker from the dust,_  
You’re the angel outta hell from the crust.  
Independent of this world, we in touch.'

 

Fingers tighten around a slender throat. The back of her eyelids are painted a vivid red. Everything is red. Breath stutters in her chest, desperate digits scrabbling against skin, digging half-moons into the flesh. She's forgotten everything: training, language, how to _breathe_. Someone's calling her name, but not in anger. Blood wells up in the trenches made by her nails. She despises this, the way she has to literally claw her way back to reality.

A heart beats steadily, albeit chaotically, against her back.

The pads of her fingers are wet. She refuses to open her eyes just yet, terrified that it's all a hoax. The warmth of the body wrapped around her, grounding her to the bed, to earth—nothing more than a false god. She's so tired of illusions. Voice sleep-rough, he whispers words that don't make sense yet. She isn't sure how long it takes for her to place the language as English this time. Her heart races just to settle in sync with his; his chaos she knows. By the time she understands words like 'electronic' and 'Vibranium' the red has faded into a soft, pale pink. She breathes with him and her fingers loosen one by one. If it hurts him—of course it hurts him—he doesn't mention it.

“Back with me?”

Natasha nods, too afraid to speak lest it be in Russian.

Tony relaxes back against the headboard, arms securely wrapped around her where she rests in the V of his legs. Unprompted, he continues to ramble. It's another ten minutes until her muscles loosen enough for her to take an unhindered deep breath. Glancing to her left she notes that it's half-past 3. She'd come out of that one quicker than the last one at least. Inhaling deeply again, simply because she can, Natasha drops her eyes to their entwined limbs. There are bloody fingerprints streaked along his forearm. The crimson is stark against her pale fingers and she shivers.

Neither of them will sleep anymore tonight.

 

\- o -

 

“You are not wearing that.”

Natasha looks down at the black dress that hugs her frame like a second skin, then back to the man holding a muffin in one hand and some piece of tech in the other. She arches a brow that says 'oh, really?' and Tony huffs. They're very well versed in each other at this point. Words are useless sometimes. He takes a bite of his breakfast, gaze wavering between appreciative and outraged as it roams over her. A devious smirk flirts with the corner of her peach colored lips. Stilettos click across the floor, stopping at his side. A tiny compass rose dangles from a delicate golden chain that's looped around her finger. He sets his muffin and toy down, wipes his hands on a napkin, and stands.

There isn't any sense of personal space between them.

Cold fingertips brush blonde strands over her left shoulder before plucking the necklace from her hand. Reaching back she holds her hair up from her neck as he situates it against her bare skin. The change to blonde had been spontaneous, another attempt to fit into her own skin. It isn't the first time she's been one, and probably won't be the last. Less red in her life seems like a step in the right direction these days. Lips brush feather-light against the side of her neck as the little gold disc settles between her breasts. She leans back but for a moment, his breath ghosting over her exposed skin.

“Want me to tell him you miss him?”

“That is a terrible idea.”

Natasha turns slightly in the circle of his space, a smile gracing her features. Reaching up she cards a hand through his yet-to-be-styled locks. Her insides warm as he leans into the touch just like a cat. She can't help but to press a barely there kiss to his stubbled jaw. Stepping back she pivots on her towering heels and heads towards the door. He watches her as she shrugs on her favorite leather jacket and steals the keys to her favorite car.

“Green isn't your color, Anthony, leave it to Bruce,” she tosses over her shoulder.

His laughter follows her out the door.

 

\- o -

 

He wakes her up screaming.

One second she's out cold, not dreaming for once, the taste of bourbon and mint toothpaste in her mouth, the next wide awake. Alert. He isn't thrashing about or kicking her. His terrified screaming had hooked her consciousness and _yanked._ He's curled in a ball with his back to her, clinging to the edge of the mattress with one hand. The other hand is clawing at his chest. There's skin and blood underneath his blunt nails. The scar where the arc reactor once sat is angry looking and oozing. She knows this because the lights are blazing in the bedroom. Friday's awake then.

Natasha wraps herself around him.

He fights her at first. It takes some maneuvering to band her arms around his chest. She doesn't try to pry his hand away from the wound, instead she laces her fingers through his and holds on. She quietly sings a lullaby that haunts her. Tony comes out of it with a ragged gasp. The song goes on. He sobs himself dry. Her eyes aren't dry either.

They fall back to sleep, lights bright and hands bloody.

 

\- o -

 

Tony's attention is trained on his phone and a brutal, verbal sparring session with one very amused Sam Wilson. It's the excuse he'll use later on when asked. In truth, she's in his space. His bed is one thing, shower another, personal— a moot point. She is in his _space_. His ragged, grease stained couch has been moved from its place and shoved into the corner. His droids are clustered next to it, butting up to his main workbench. There's some weirdly hypnotic music blaring from his sound system, and for a minute he thinks it's actually his old 'Avengers Assemble' alarm.

'Madness, madness, _madness_.'

Birdbrain sounds concerned when he hears it. Tony hangs up on him without another word. His hand drops to his side simultaneously with his jaw to his chest. Jesus. She's painfully beautiful with her hair tied up and face bare of makeup. She's only wearing some seriously short shorts-looking things and an over-sized sweater that is in danger of falling off. The black sports bra that peeks from under the stretched collar matches her shorts. There's only a 3-second delay between songs. Tony stands and stares in utter fascination.

' _I'm a princess cut from marble, smoother than a storm._

_And the scars that mark my body, they’re silver and gold._

_My blood is a flood of rubies, precious stones;_

_It keeps my veins hot, the fire's found a home in me._

_I move through town, I’m quiet like a fire._

_And my necklace is of rope, I tie it and untie it.'_

He's been to plenty of ballets in his life, fallen asleep at more of them than he'd care to admit. It's an entertaining thing, ballet. But this? This isn't just a pretty pirouette and sparkly fabric. This is a war of mind and heart. Natasha moves seamlessly from one position to the next. The lyrics are somehow woven into every pose and he's just, he's flabbergasted. He's fought next to her before, he's lusted over the way she can kill a man with her thighs alone. This, though... He isn't sure if he wants to cry or fuck her into his mattress. Probably both. At the same time.

When the song bleeds into the next, he actually enters his lab/garage. He has no doubt that she's known he's been watching her since he walked down the stairs. This song has another weird siren sound. He watches her spin, her movements tapering off as she faces him.

“You're staring,” Nat sways softly to the beat as she nears him, grabbing a bottle off the ground by the door he hadn't cared to notice.

“Yes, I am.”

“That's rude.”

“You're in _my_ lab.”

“You want me to go?”

“Fuck you,” he replies with the wrong kind of heat.

“Maybe, if you cook me a steak first,” she says with a completely straight face.

Tony groans and she hides her smirk behind her water bottle.

' _I'd like it if you stayed..._

_And I like you._ '

 

\- o -

 

The unfortunate fact is that she can't kill him. It would make her sad. So she punches him instead. Not hard enough to break anything, but he's gonna have a shiner for the press conference the next day.

“Are you fucking serious?!” Tony yells, grabbing at his face.

“Fuck you, Anthony.”

“Guys, calm down!”

“Not now, Clinton,” Natasha spits, gaze unwavering.

Clint throws his hands up and exits stage left, dragging a gaping Steve and Sam with him. Tony's eyes are watering and she isn't sure if it's all because of the hit she landed. Good. She wants him to _feel_. The alcohol she'd drank earlier is burning off quickly and chipping away at her calm. She's fucking human, damn him. She no longer has a handler and she damn well doesn't need one. She's _changed_.

“You should probably go,” Tony straightens his shoulders and wipes spittle off onto his sleeve.

Natasha stands rooted to the spot.

She'd opened herself up. Dumping those Hydra files onto the internet had been risky. It'd peeled back a layer or two. Siding with Tony and ultimately betraying him at the eleventh hour had shucked a few more. Returning to the compound four months later, blonde, and her tail between her legs; apologizing had not been easy. It'd taken nearly a month before he'd admitted that she'd been right to do what she'd done. Then he'd told her about Steve and James, Siberia. That was the first night she'd slept in his bed.

All of that was a cakewalk compared to this.

A reconnaissance mission gone wrong. A gun to her head. Nothing she couldn't handle. What she couldn't handle was Iron Man blasting into the warehouse with guns blazing. Especially when he wasn't even supposed to _know_ about the damn mission. After he'd taken out the only lead they'd had, he'd insisted that they call the others and go out for a drink. Clint, always up for beer, agreed and she'd found herself at a seedy bar. Tony stepping out of his suit to awed fans and the chatter around them when Sam and Steve walked in was deafening.

Three drinks in and a smug Tony had exclaimed that he'd saved the night, thanks to the tracker he'd put on Nat. Her blood had boiled. The busty waitress flirting with the guys and being snippy to her had only poured fuel onto the fire. She'd somehow managed to hold her tongue, though, but the moment they'd entered the common room, she'd snapped.

“Where is it, Tony?”

His eyes betray him, dropping down to the glinting gold charm nestled snugly in her cleavage. Her stomach heaves and roils like a weary sea. It had been a gift, something to 'point her home'. She'd secretly cried after he'd gone to sleep; snuck up onto the roof with nothing but a pillow to hold onto and cried, like a fucking girl. She should have heard the words for what they truly were, but she'd been distracted. He's a fucking distraction, and look where that's gotten her. Pale fingers wrap around the delicate chain that rings her neck and _yanks_. The soft tinkle of the tiny compass rose hitting the hardwood floor is a stake driven into a coffin. This is over. Dead.

“Natasha?” a soft voice asks from the doorway.

Nat speaks a hushed sentence in Romanian and Tony's gaze hardens a fraction. Without another word he turns and moves toward the kitchen. She knows he's going for the liquor he hides in plain sight. Her eyes sweep from the soles of his shoes and up to his slightly mussed hair. She slips out of her heels and scoops them up, leaving on silent feet. Wanda is leaning beside the door, waiting patiently. They take the long way to Tony's wing, nothing is said between them. It takes fifteen minutes to pack her things. When she's finished, Nat snakes her free arm around the girl's waist and presses a kiss to the crown of her head. She takes the back way out.

She's been gone for four hours when she gets the text from Wanda.

' _Locked down in his lab, drunk. Please, be safe. xo'_

 

\- o -

 

Natasha has been MIA for three months when Tony gets the call.

“You're an asshole.”

Tony pulls his phone away from his face and glares at the number. Why'd he answer an unknown number anyway? Probably the going-on 34 hours without sleep thing.

“I'm aware.”

“Listen,” the man sighs and Tony's depleted brain scrambles to connect the voice to a name, “I shouldn't have even called, but she'll get over it.” His heart stutters painfully. “Mission went south, shot three times, punctured lung, broken collarbone...” He can't breathe. Friday kindly puts the call on speaker while he leans over his workbench attempting to coax his lungs to expand. His hearing and vision tunnel and he only catches bits and pieces of a conversation that he's supposed to be a part of.

Suddenly small, steady hands are on him, arms around him when his knees hit the concrete. The next thing he knows, everything is quiet, save for the humming. Her voice has a similar cadence to Nat's. Oh, God. Natasha.

“Is she dead?”

“No.”

Tony sags, a marionette with its strings cut. Wanda trails soothing fingers through his greasy hair. He doesn't deserve her. Jesus, fuck. He'd gotten her locked in a cell and collared. He isn't any better than Hydra. He should have let Cap kill him.

“Shut up! That's nonsense, Tony,” Wanda reprimands him. “You are nothing like them. You thought you were doing the right thing for your friends... You were terrified after—after Ultron.”

“I still am. Terrified,” he whispers.

Wanda's hands slide to either side of his face and she gently tips it up to look him in the eye. Her own are glistening with tears. “We all are. We are broken, Tony. That is what is so beautiful, that we are so disfigured on our own, but together we are magnificently _whole_.”

She holds him, there on the cold unforgiving floor of his lab for what's possibly hours, while he weeps.

It turns out that Natasha is fine, recovering, but fine. Fury's, of all the places she could have gone to ground, is where she's been. She's been in fucking New York the entire time, holed up in a brownstone with the former Director of SHIELD. Tony would laugh but he's nursing an emotional hangover.

Wanda, Steve, and Rhodey had all offered to accompany him. He'd politely declined. If he's going to get his ass handed to him by an assassin, again, then he'd rather not have witnesses. Also, he really doesn't want an audience while he grovels, thank you, very much.

He rings the doorbell and shoves his hands into his pockets.

It's the longest minute of his life, but the door finally opens. He's honestly tempted to drop to his knees right there on the stoop and just _beg_. His chest twinges with phantom pain.

“I'll kill him.”

“Isn't he technically already dead, though?”

Natasha sighs and turns, disappearing into the bowels of the house. He notices that she's limping a little. The door closes with a soft snick behind him. He turns the deadbolt for good measure. A narrow hall leads to a moderately middle-sized living room. It looks like something a grandmother has decorated. He finds her curled into the corner of a hideously green, flowered couch, a cup of something steaming cradled in her hands. He doesn't sit. She doesn't speak. She waits him out, each second of silence nipping at him. Turning away from the mantle and porcelain menagerie atop it, he faces her.

“I'm sorry.”

“Pardon?”

“Jesus,” reaching up he takes his glasses off and drags a hand over his face. “You heard me. I'm a terrible person, and I'm sorry. I wanted to protect you, and I fucked up. The tracker; I went too far”

She sets her mug down and leans back, leveling him with a knowing look. “Yes, you did.”

“I was wrong, and... and you were right to leave me.”

“Yes, I was.”

He knows she's playing him and he welcomes it. At least she's talking to him instead of radio silence. God, help him, he's a wreck. Steve cutting ties with him after their little 'war' was nothing on Nat walking out on him. And he's aware he has no one to blame but himself. He is always to blame, every damn time. Hell, losing Pepper hadn't even registered on this scale. When he'd found his bedroom bare of her, every trace just _gone_ , it'd been the straw that broke the camel's back. It was the shrapnel in his heart all over again. _Fuck._ His eyes suddenly widen and realization strikes him like a bolt of lightning. He sits down hard in a garish wing-back chair.

“You've gotta be kidding me...”

“Come again?”

His eyes track the column of her throat as she swallows. They narrow as her pulse jumps. Does she—no, she couldn't, could she? He'd actually, stupidly, never considered the possibility. She's _the_ fucking Black Widow, he's just someone to pass the time with, right? She's Natasha Romanoff and there's a yellowing bruise on her left cheekbone that he wants to kiss better. She's Natalia Romanova and her red roots are starting to betray the bottle blonde shade she's trying out. She's Natalie Rushman and her nails are painted a deep maroon shade, and he'd bet his soul it matches the Mark XLVII suit that he's been tinkering with this past year. She's still as a statue, a deer in headlights. Tony laughs, because why the fuck not!

“I... Okay, sorry, I'm good. I think I just had one of those 'come to Jesus' moments or something.”

“Either clue me in or get out. I'm tired, Tony.”

He grins and pushes to his feet. Skirting the low coffee table, he pushes it back a bit and perches on the edge of it, his knees snugged up to hers. She smells like something spicy and warm that sends naughty signals to his brain. She called him 'Tony'.

“I'm an ass, we've established this, but there's something we skipped over.” Telegraphing his movement, when she doesn't lay him on his ass or shrink away from him, he reaches for her hands. “You. We don't talk about _you_ , and for that I am the biggest fool. You know every little thing there is to know, you hold me when I can't get out of my head... You, God, you're fucking amazing. Those files you dumped, I read them, but I don't believe them. I want to—”

Nat's frame stiffens at the mention of the Hydra files and she squeezes his hands tightly, interrupting him; “What the fuck are you talking about?”

“I'm in love with you.”

He blurts it out, just tosses it out like a random fact. Sometimes his brain works faster than his mouth, which is a miracle, and he just erupts. She's up and off the couch in a wink. His eyes widen because she just vaulted over the back of the ugly couch, and she's injured. What the fuck. Her frame is riddled with tension and she looks absolutely terrified. Terrified. The word conjures Wanda's soft voice whispering of broken things and beautiful disasters. It gives him strength to stand and move towards the woman.

 

\- - -

 

“No,” she grits out through clenched teeth. Her heart is thundering, a panicking bird thrashing against the bars of its cage. She loves Clint and his goofy dog. She loves Steve and all of his righteous loyalty. She loves James and his determination. She loves Wanda and her _kindness_ despite everything that's been done to her. Those people are her strength and she siphons those characteristics from them. Without them she is nothing more than a weapon, angles sharp and deadly.

Then there's this asshole.

He wants to talk about _her_. He wants to know the real her. How can she explain to him that even she doesn't know who she is? How does she tell him that those files are her building blocks? She's a thief, stealing from the only family she knows. And he thinks he loves her? Impossible. She is unlovable. In and out, strike and fade; Plié... 1 2 3... Grande Jeté...

Warm hands bracket her face and draw her attention away from the yawning darkness.

“I've got you.”

“What?” her voice cracks traitorously.

Thumbs swipe wetness from her cheeks and she blinks.

“I don't care who you were. And we don't have to ever talk about anything, you know I'm allergic to feelings.” It startles a strangled laugh from her and he smiles, his eyes shining so damn bright. “What matters is that you're _ours_.”

“Ours?”

“The Team's. I collect strays if you haven't noticed. You happen to be my favorite, but if you tell Steve that I'll have to leave the country.”

“He'd only follow you.”

“And you?”

“I'd fly us, of course.”

“Of course,” he whispers, resting his brow against hers.

Nat inhales shakily. He's done it again. He always figures out a way to drag her back from the brink, more often than not kicking and screaming. He's... He's an ass, opinionated, annoying. He holds her together when she shakes apart. He tells her stories of how Howard lit up whenever Maria walked into a room, how he'd turn sullen and drown in liquor when an expedition came up empty handed. He makes her coffee and cooks her steak, falls asleep watching Netflix curled up on his ratty couch. He put a fucking locker in his lab with her name on it.

“What about you,” she questions quietly, cautiously.

“What about me?” he leans back to see her but his hands remain.

“You said 'ours', but what about _you_?”

“I figured you'd kick me in the balls if I said something about you being _mine_ and mine alone.”

“Say it.”

His eyes take a circuit of her face before meeting hers. Their rich honey depths beckon her in. Her spine straightens and something unfurls inside her gut.

“What I said was true, about them. But, what really matters to _me_ is that you're mine. Fuck the past, ours are horror stories anyway. Lets write own fucking story this time around.”

“You're so eloquent,” she deadpans.

Whatever he's about to say is cut off by her mouth. He tastes like coffee and redemption. Something inside of her _clicks_ , a switch flipped, and she smiles into the kiss. If she's writing her own fucking story this time around, then she damn well wants him in a leading role. She spends the next few hours proving just that.

 

'- _there's certain things that I adore,_

_And there's certain things that I ignore._

_But I'm certain that I'm yours.'_

 

\- o -

 

It's dark in a brownstone somewhere on a sleepy street, in New York. Not a sound is made as a key unlocks the door and it's pushed open. He'd expected there to be upended furniture and broken glass, but he finds neither. The sleek car parked on the curb tells him that the house isn't empty, though. The silence isn't exactly welcoming, but he'll take it over loud arguing—or gunfire—any day. All he wants is a cold beer and to sit down on his granny's couch. Damn dramatic Avengers. Why'd he ever think that was a good idea? Shedding his jacket and hat, he grabs a drink out of the fridge and makes his way down the hall. Nothing looks out of place as he enters the room and he sighs in relief.

Then he turns the light on.

“ _Mother fucker!_ On my Granny's best sofa! Get your nasty ass off my furniture!”

Tony's laughter dances through the night air and Natasha smiles against his chest.

 

_FIN._

 

**Author's Note:**

> Songs:   
> Title and lyrics at beginning taken from here:  
> \- Tinashe ft. Travi$ Scott - Vulnerable   
> Natasha's dance list in order Tony hears them:  
> \- Ruelle - Monster   
> \- Lorde - Yellow Flicker Beat   
> \- Lorde - 400 Lux   
> Song I listened to on repeat while writing the break up/break down:  
> \- Sigrid - Everybody Knows   
> And lastly, the ending lyrics:  
> \- James Arthur ft. Chasing Grace - Certain Things   
> Thank you for reading!


End file.
